


Turning Point

by Schmiezi



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, First Kiss, Fluffy Ending, Idiots in Love, Love Confessions, M/M, POV Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-11
Updated: 2019-01-11
Packaged: 2019-10-08 07:22:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17382206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Schmiezi/pseuds/Schmiezi
Summary: After a dangerous situation, some things need to be said.





	Turning Point

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GoSherlocked](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoSherlocked/gifts).



> This fic was written for the Secret Santa Fic Exchange at the Sherlock forum. My prompt was to write something funny or heart warming. Funny is not what I am good at, I think, so I was aiming at heart warming.
> 
> The story is set a few years after S4.

There was absolutely no reason to lie wide awake in the middle of the night, Sherlock knew that. No reason at all. Really. The day had not been that extraordinary. A mediocre theft, a thrilling chase, some happy jewellery owner in the end.

Admittedly, for a second it had been a bit close but it had ended well. Thanks to John's brilliant fighting instinct, Sherlock had to admit. Not thanks to his own actions, or lack of it. But it was the result that mattered, not how they got there, and the result was that John had not been stabbed to death by a mediocre thief. So all was well.

Only that Sherlock knew that for three point eight seconds John's death had been more likely than his survival. If John had dodged that attack only slightly slower he would be dead now.

If John had turned to the right instead of turning to the left he-.

If John had -

And so Sherlock was lying in his bed, wide awake for hours now, knowing that John had nearly died today while all he had done was stare at the scene, frozen, unable to do anything.

A sound broke through Sherlock's dark thoughts. The stairs.

There was a time, not long ago, when this sound was heard every night. John padding down the stairs to prepare milk for Rosie. She had developed a habit of wanting an extra bottle when she and John had moved in there. And John, feeling guilty for each and every thing concerning Rosie in the beginning, had complied willingly.

During their first year back at Baker Street the sound was heard every night. When Rosie grew older, the frequency was reduced. Now she was almost six years old, and hardly ever needed attention at night.

Sherlock listened closely. There was no sound to be heard from above, so Rosie was asleep. Whatever reason John had to wander down the stairs at three in the morning, it had nothing to do with her. The sounds coming from the kitchen were easy to understand. John making tea, trying not to make too much noise.

Meaning he did not want to wake Sherlock. Meaning he wanted to be alone. Or he wanted to be polite. After all the years John was still a mystery to Sherlock in that way. The sounds from the kitchen ceased. No steps on the stairs. John was staying in the kitchen, drinking his tea.

Maybe John wanted to be alone. Sherlock definitely did not. He got up, grabbed his dressing gown and went into the kitchen before his brain caught up with it.

When he entered the room, John looked up, not very surprised. There was a second cup of tea standing next to his own. “Thought you wouldn't sleep well tonight,” John offered. He gave Sherlock a half smile, concern in his eyes.

“That's ridiculous,” Sherlock snorted. “You are the one who almost got killed today! I should take care for you, not the other way round.”

John's smile became softer somewhat. “And yet, here we are,” he said and gestured Sherlock to sit down. Sherlock complied. For a second, he saw John in that dirty alleyway again, how it would have happened if John had not been quick enough. The thug's knife would have hit John's carotid artery straight away, the blade being sharp enough to slice through it like butter. John would have collapsed before Sherlock could have reached him. He would have been still alive when Sherlock would have taken him in his arms and dead merely seconds later.

When Sherlock looked up at John sitting in the safety of the nightly kitchen, he could see the pattern the blood on Sherlock's hands would have left on John's face.

And the timing would have been the cruellest twist of fate. For it has been only yesterday that they had almost kissed. They have been disturbed by Rosie but it had not mattered much to Sherlock for he had finally understood that John was really in love with him too and they had the rest of their life to explore that and one day more or less didn't really count.

And when John had been standing in front of him, unhurt, unkilled, Sherlock had had another chance to kiss him, and suddenly he felt all the loss and pain and desperation and insanity and emptiness he would feel should anything ever happen to John, and he had shied out.

And then they had returned home, and Sherlock had fled to his bed, and after four hours of still being unkissed John had made him tea instead of reproaches.

And it was John who was still blaming himself for the mistakes he had made some years ago. Stupid idiot.

Sherlock looked at John again, no imaginary blood on his face this time, and their eyes met. “I am too scared to kiss you,” Sherlock blurted out.

John's expression barely changed. He was suppressing a grin, Sherlock could tell, but did it really well. “Well,” John said, doing his best to sound serious, “I could kiss you instead, but see, I have already survived a knife attack today AND made tea. I really think it's your turn now.”

Sherlock stared at John for almost one minute while he contemplated how to answer.

“I cannot stand the thought of losing you,” he said in his mind.

“I know,” imaginary John answered. “I have lost you once and it almost killed me.”

“And still you are willing to risk losing me again.”

“Indeed.”

No, too cheesy.

“I have waited for this moment for so long,” Sherlock said in his mind instead, “And now I am scared to ruin it.”

“You won't,” imaginary John said, letting a hand run through Sherlock's wild curls. “I know exactly what I am getting when starting a relationship with you.”

In reality, Sherlock sighed. They did not need more words. They have been talking for years now. And so Sherlock took a deep breath, stepped closer to John, leaned down to him, and let his lips linger just inches away from John's for a moment before finally, finally kissing him.

He had planned to break the kiss after three seconds, needing to make eye contact with John, reading in his face that everything was fine, maybe even better than fine.

But John would not allow that. The moment Sherlock moved back John's arms were around him suddenly, pulling him closer, turning that chaste first kiss into something wilder, something coming from the very depth of John's soul, taking Sherlock's breath away and causing him to sway.

Sherlock felt parts of his body reacting to the kiss, parts that were very far away from his face. For the first time in his life, he did not mind that at all.

He still needed to talk, Sherlock realized. He needed to tell John how much he loved him, how much he meant to him, how he felt at home now for the first time in his life. But that would have to wait until later. Now, there was only this kiss, and John's hands on his body, and the warmth John's body was emanating, and his tongue in Sherlock's mouth, and their hips pressing against each other.

“I ...” Sherlock tried between kisses but didn't get much further.

“I love you too,” John answered, and for a while, the world was perfect.


End file.
